People's Republic

by Kurt Schlichter

  The big parking lot had been designed with tractor trailer rigs in mind; the fading asphalt spread over a couple hundred square yards. At the fringes, which never saw any traffic anymore, the desert plants were breaking through and slowly reclaiming it. There were two rigs there this morning. One looked like it was always going to be there; the remaining tires were flat and it seemed like someone was living in the cab. The other truck was beat up and dirty, with the legend “Chasen’s Trucking” on the side of the dinged-up trailer, except the word “Chasen’s” had been allowed to fade such that it was now really just the generic “Trucking.” There were four or five other cars or pick-ups in the lot, all close to the diner.

  No one was at the pumps; as Turnbull approached he could see they were all padlocked. No self-service anymore. Fuel was too valuable not to be dispensed very carefully.

  Only the aimless server in a yellow uniform and a couple sour-looking locals at the counter looked up when the two scraggly desert rats walked in and took a booth near the back. The others were just passing through; time wasted on considering the newcomers would mean that much more time they had to spend there. They ate like prisoners, hunched over their plates and shoveling food into their mouths and swallowing it in rapid, joyless gulps.

  The tabletop seemed to be made out of some form of linoleum; the seat cushion where Turnbull sat had been slashed.

  “Vato Loco 69,” Junior read quietly. It was carved into the linoleum.

  “Just stay cool. Remember, we’re typical lowlifes. Don’t draw attention.”

  The server stepped over, clearly irritated to have been called away from her idleness by the appearance of these two. She had a tattoo of some kind of dog on her forearm and the left side of her head was shaved.

  “I guess you’re our waitress,” Junior said, smiling. “Can we get menus?”

  Oh shit, thought Turnbull.

  “Fucking ‘waitress’? Are you kidding me, asshole? What kind of sexist asshole are you? I’m a facilitator, asshole! And menus? You think you’re funny?”

  “Yeah, don’t be such an asshole, asshole,” barked Turnbull to his stricken companion. He turned to the facilitator. “He’s been, you know.” Turnbull pantomimed smoking a joint. The facilitator scowled. “What do you want?”

  “Coffees?” Turnbull said, smiling hopefully while kicking Junior under the table. Junior took the hint and was silent. The scene having calmed, the rest of the patrons went back to their own business.

  The facilitator scowled down on them again. “We have responsible coffee.”

  “Great. And to eat?”

  “Egg and toast. You got rat cards?” She asked suspiciously.

  “Sure, right here.” Turnbull pulled a couple of burnt orange ration cards out of his pocket; he had pre-crumpled them earlier. The waitress grunted, then turned on her heel and retreated to the kitchen, but not before shooting some more hate Junior’s way.

  Turnbull leaned in. “Are you fucking kidding me?” “What is her problem?”

  “What is your problem?”

  “I just tried to order breakfast.”

  “Okay, first, there are no waiters and waitresses here anymore. It’s oppressive or some shit. And –ess is sexist. You basically told her she was your servant.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Yeah, it’s ridiculous. Welcome to the PR. Everything is racist, everything is sexist. And you’re terrible. Why do you think they have privilege levels on their ID cards? At home, it’s about the individual. Here, unless you’re elite, you’re not an individual. You’re just your skin tone, how you pee, who you pray to, and who you want to fuck. That’s it. That’s the PR.” Turnbull glanced over to make sure the facilitator wasn’t coming back yet, and when he saw she wasn’t he continued.

  “Okay, if you want to survive you have to understand one thing. These people are crazy. What they do makes no sense. None. Except when they are hunting you down – they manage to do that pretty damn well. They were rich, they had resources, they had freedom, and they threw it all away for a bunch of bullshit notions about social justice. And every time things get worse for them, instead of going back to what worked, they double down on what screwed everything up. Do you get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “And asking for a menu? Are you serious? This is not Dallas or Houston or Omaha. These people have no food, or at least no choice about their food. Get your head in the game. And don’t complain about the coffee.”

  The facilitator appeared, plopped two chipped coffee cups full of light brown liquid on the table and left without a word. Junior suppressed his urge to ask for cream and sugar; Turnbull had been almost imperceptibly shaking his head and mouthing “No.”

  Cautiously, Junior picked up his cup and took a sip.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “What is that?”

  “That is responsible coffee. Drink up.”

  “It’s terrible. It’s dirty water.”

  “Of course it is. It’s responsible.”

  “Why do they call it ‘responsible’?”

  “Because reusing the grounds until there’s nothing left saves the environment by not having to import so much coffee or truck around so much coffee or something. Apparently every cup of coffee causes the Earth to warm or cool or whatever.”

  The facilitator appeared again, this time with two forks and two plates, which she slammed down before walking off again. The toast was small and dry as dust, and probably was well before it was toasted. The artist in back had somehow rendered both of their eggs into small piles of a rubbery, vaguely green, scrambled matter. Junior looked at his food, then looked at Turnbull, who was already digging himself a fork full.

  “No, no salt, no pepper. Now eat.”

  Junior sighed and picked up his utensil.

  “You wanted to come,” Turnbull reminded him.

  Junior ate slowly, not because he wasn’t hungry but because he dreaded every mouthful. He stopped eating when he noticed Turnbull pausing. A customer in a blue work shirt wearing a red ball cap had gotten up and was headed to the toilet. As he passed the table, Junior saw what was written on it – “Chasen’s Trucking.” Turnbull rose without a word and followed the driver into the head.

  They were in there for about ten minutes. Junior was getting uncomfortable on several levels, and he was relieved when the trucker came out. Turnbull came out a minute later and sat back down. The facilitator had left the bill - $278.65 and two Series A rat cards. Turnbull fished around for his cash.

  “Do we tip?” Junior asked.

  “Oh hell no. It’s racist or something. Let’s get out of here and wander over to the truck. Don’t be conspicuous, or at least don’t be more conspicuous than you can help. We’ve got our ride to Vegas.”

  5.

  The trucker didn’t say a thing as they got in the back of the cab. Turnbull handed him a wad of bills, and he started up the rig and off they went to the west.

  They did not see much huddled in the back of the tractor’s cab. Occasionally, in the distance a cloud or the top of a bluff would pass by, but during the long drive that was about it. The truck rarely got over 45 miles per hour – too many bumps and it wasted too much gas to go any faster.

  They were stopped at one check point, but only for a moment. The People’s Security Force officer did not even bother climbing up to the cab’s window. He yelled something from the ground that the passengers could not make out, and the trucker replied “Coming back empty. Want to see my manifest?”

  Apparently he didn’t. The cop said something and the truck rolled forward back down the highway. Turnbull and Junior put away their weapons and went back to resting as comfortably as they could on top of their packs.

  The trucker let them out at the eastern edge of Las Vegas, on a side street in a residential area that looked like a minor tornado had ripped through it. Turnbull handed the driver the other half of his pay for delivering them and off he drove without another word; the empty bac
khaul would now not be a total loss.

  The street was lined with cars, and the cars themselves were almost uniformly dirty, many with broken windows, and most with desert detritus built up against their cracking tires. Occasionally an operable one would pass by on the street. Mostly, at least in this part of Vegas, people walked, either all the way or to bus stops. It was already 90 degrees.

  The high rise casinos of the Strip in the distance poked up over the rooftops. They walked that way with their packs, and they drew little notice from passers-by. Just more transients coming through. A couple thuggish young men with tattoos and morning beers sat on a porch and briefly considered the pair, then thought better of it and turned up the hip hop on the old battery operated radio beside them. There was no point in plugging it in; the power would not come back on until five.

  There was not a house in the neighborhood with a living lawn. Instead, their yards were all long ago baked dry. Most of the houses could have used a coat of paint; the ones that were still occupied – maybe a third – had bars on the windows. From somewhere, there was a string of obscenities in a woman’s voice, and then she went silent.

  After a few blocks, they came to what looked like a church. At least, it had the shape of a church, including a spire, but what looked like it had been the cross on top was sawed off, leaving a lonely foot-long stump. A sign hanging over the door read “People’s Shelter.” A couple bums lounged on the front steps in front of the open door, laughing and drinking something out of a paper bag.

  “After they got rid of the tax exemptions for churches, most couldn’t pay and the government took them to pay the tax bills,” Turnbull explained. “Let’s go in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no one ever asks who you are in a homeless shelter.”

  The manager was a sweaty, balding man in a t-shirt that read “HUMAN SERVICES.” He sized up the pair as they approached, clearly displeased.

  “Can we get a couple racks? Nice ones. Maybe kind of private?”

  The manager scowled a little, but then saw that Turnbull had produced a $50 bill. That was an hour of work at the minimum wage. “Yeah, there’s an office you two can have. Just keep it quiet. Don’t wake anyone up doing your thing.” He leered a little.

  “We aren’t –,” Junior began, but Turnbull cut him off.

  “We’ll take it.”

  “I don’t want to see any hard shit. Booze and pot are fine. No hard shit. Do what you want, but I don’t want to see it or I’m calling the cops.”

  “Sure,” Turnbull said, passing him the bill, which the manager stuffed into his dirty cargo shorts.

  Any reminder that this had once been a house of worship had been deliberately stripped away. Even the pews were gone, replaced with a mosaic of cots and tattered lean-tos occupied by a cast of wretches who either shot them suspicious glances or chose not to notice them at all. On the walls were a variety of posters, some extolling the prosperity of the People’s Republic, some soliciting reports on the activities of its internal enemies.

  They went through what had been the sanctuary and up a flight of steps someone had mistaken for a urinal to the second floor. On one side was the manager’s office; it was secured with a padlock. On the other was their room, bare except for a couple of cots.

  “You better leave the windows open. It’s going to get hot and the last guy in there didn’t like to go downstairs to piss at night,” the manager said. “Don’t piss in my room, understand?” he added. Turnbull nodded.

  The manager left, and Turnbull shut and bolted the door. Almost immediately, the smell rose into their nostrils. The room was pungent with the tang of ex-beer.

  “Ah, shit,” Junior said, scrunching up his nose. He went to the west-facing window and forced it up and open. The hot air rushing in helped, but only a little. From the second floor, he had a better view of the Strip, glittering and shiny even at mid-day. Evidently, the casinos did not have brownouts. And in the sky beyond them, there was a stream of small planes flying into and out of Harry Reid International Airport. The elite loved their Vegas adventures.

  Turnbull’s voice brought Junior back. “Let’s get some sleep. Tonight we need to find a way to LA.”

  When they woke up it was dark outside; the oddly-shaped bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was giving off a weak, pale light.

  “What the hell is wrong with the light?” Junior asked.

  “It’s a florescent bulb. Supposed to save the world from global warning. If it was incandescent like ours back home, someone would have stolen it by now – they go for a lot here.”

  “I can’t even see,” Junior replied, then his eyes were drawn to the window. There was no such problem seeing the Strip. The casinos were awash in light, their glow illuminating the night sky. Red, blue, yellow – a glittering jewel in a field of coal.

  “Brings in the foreigners. Chinese, Japanese, Euros. And they bring their cash. They call this Sin City and that’s Sin Central.”

  Outside there was a shrill whistle, then a crash like a cymbal, then shouts. Junior went to the window. Down the street there was a crowd marching up the road, shouting and chanting, blowing whistles and smashing cymbals.

  “It’s a parade!” he said.

  Turnbull joined him at the window and stared for a moment. “No, it’s a protest.”

  There were about fifty of them. The marchers were generally young, with a few fossils thrown in – probably from the University of Las Vegas. The long white banner the front rank held before it said “PEOPLE DEMAND AN END TO CLASSISM AND RACISM NOW!” in bright red letters. Others held signs: “PEOPLE’S CONGRESS FOR JUSTICE,” “ACTION FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE” and “UNITED TO DEFEAT ZIONISM!” The transients occupying the former church who were milling about in the front yard smoking pot barely looked up as the protestors chanted:

  You can’t run

  You can’t hide

  Racism takes

  Human life!

  “That doesn’t even rhyme,” observed Junior.

  The marchers passed the former church and continued off into the residential neighborhood, clanging, blowing and shouting all the way. “Why are they protesting here? Why not out on the Strip? That’s where the people who run things probably are. They sure aren’t here.”

  “They’d never get close to the Strip. Security’s too tight. This used to be a nice, middle class neighborhood. What do they call it – bourgeois? That’s who they’re protesting. Not the people in charge.”

  “Didn’t most of the bourgeois people leave the blues after the Split?”

  “I guess these dipshits can’t stop themselves from beating up on the ones who are left since they aren’t allowed to mess with the people who really run things. Now let’s get our stuff and get going.”

  They left their packs in the room; Turnbull used a padlock to secure it from the outside. They took their Glocks and Turnbull also took the silenced .22 – just in case.

  It was hot on the street, and angry. Most of the people out were young and a bit feral; others were clearly between homes. The normal people, assuming there were any, must have been off the streets and behind their barred windows. Many of the windows in the houses they passed flickered with the soft light of television sets.

  They were headed toward the Strip, the lights on the horizon their beacon. The residential neighborhood gave way to a zone made up primarily of small businesses. About half the storefronts were boarded up. There were lots of do-it-yourself laundries; they were packed mostly with women and a few kids. As the appliances from before the Split wore out, more and more people found themselves using the pay washes when they found they were unable to replace their old washers and dryers.

  “Can we get something to drink, like a Coke?” asked Junior as they passed what appeared to be a liquor store. Turnbull nodded and they both went in. The greasy clerk barely looked up from his television; it was some sort of reality show that seemed to consist of women screaming “Bitch” at each other. He found it end
lessly amusing.

  The store was cramped and dingy, and the shelves were intermittently stocked. There were some chips for sale, and some unappetizing snack cakes, and quite a lot of soda pop. The reason was pretty obvious – cans of Coke were $112 each, including the “health tax” on sugared food.

  There was plenty of liquor, but only one or two brands of each kind. Junior didn’t recognize any of them. And pot – there was a wall of marijuana. Junior took a can of Coke and a small bag of chips and went to the counter. The TV was now showing an ad; the announcer was telling the audience, “Only you can prevent racism, denialism, and homophobia. Report social criminals to the PBI. Free speech does not include hate.” Some sort of male cartoon mouse was on the screen hugging another male cartoon mouse. The clerk looked up, bored.

  “Series C.”

  “What?”

  “Your rat card. Series C, for the chips. Your ration card?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Junior dug into his pocket, remembering what Turnbull had taught him about how to buy food in the Blue.

  “Extra ten, we can forget the rat card. I’ll write it off as lifted.”

  “No, I got it.” Junior handed over one of the burnt orange stamps and the clerk seemed disappointed. The cartoon mice finished hugging and the next ad came on, this one explaining why brownouts were necessary to save the Earth from global warming.

  Outside, Junior popped the top on the Coke and tasted it. It was warm, and it was like no other Coca-Cola he had ever tasted. Whoever made it had stinted on both the sugar and the cola. He left the rest of the most expensive soda pop he had ever purchased sitting on the sidewalk.